


London Fog

by orphan_account



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Broadcast Journalists AU, F/M, Fitz and Simmons are anchors on a morning show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 15:37:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5545433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since journalism school, Fitz and Jemma have been a package deal. They've finally found a good thing as anchors on a morning news show, London Fog with Fitz and Simmons. Jemma finally feels ready to tell Fitz how she feels--until she gets a job offer that changes everything. </p><p>A Broadcast Journalist AU for SuburbanSun for the FS Secret Santa Exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	London Fog

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SuburbanSun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuburbanSun/gifts).



> For SuburbanSun. I was so excited to see that I got you as my giftee. You're such a gem to the fandom and I hope you had a fantastic holiday (if you celebrate!). Happy new year, and I hope you enjoy this incredibly long one-shot.

“That’s all the time we have for today,” Jemma beams into the camera. “From all of us at Channel 12, we thank you for watching. That’s life—“

 

“—so think on,” Fitz finishes. They raise their respective mugs toward the camera, matching smiles on their faces.

 

“That’s a wrap!” their producer, Daisy, shouts to the studio. “I will see you all tomorrow morning at our usual _ungodly_ hour.”

 

Fitz and Jemma immediately begin detaching their body mics. She holds back a giggle as he gets incredibly tangled in his. Jemma lets him struggle for a few moments before she steps in and helps him, wordlessly grabbing the cord from his hands and reaching her hands beneath his shirt to yank the contraption out.

 

“Thanks,” he sighs in relief. “Every morning it’s a bloody stand-off between me and that damn thing.”

 

“Yes, Fitz, the body mics are all out to get you. Shall we head to Phil’s?” Jemma asks.

 

Fitz shoots her a tired smile, rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt to get more comfortable. “Do you even have to ask, Simmons?”

 

Jemma rolls her eyes, lips quirking up at the ends. Ever since they’d finished journalism school, they’d been a package deal. Unfortunately, that had meant travelling the UK doing a variety of crappy morning shows. They’d found quite the home at Channel 12, though. _London Fog with Fitz and Simmons_ had a better following then any other show they’d done thus far, including their brief but fairly successful run on _Irish Breakfast_ in Dublin.

 

They’d never quite bonded with a team the way they had with the team at Channel 12. They’d developed a wonderful friendship with their precocious American producer, their director Alphonso Mackenzie, and even their lighting guy, Lincoln Campbell. Jemma had been a bit surprised to walk onto a morning show set in London run by a primarily American crew, but they’d all made it work. Ratings held steady and high, especially for their time-slot, and the network seemed to think the combined efforts of Fitz and Simmons brought the viewers back every morning.

 

“Hey, you two,” Daisy calls as they begin to gather their things in the green room. “We’re thinking about doing a re-title.”

 

They turn in sync, brows furrowed as their heads tilt.

 

“Why would you do that?”

 

“To what?”

 

Daisy rolls her eyes as they speak over one another. After two years of working with them, she’d grown accustomed to it and could (usually) understand what they were both getting at.

 

“Fitz and Simmons is kind of a mouthful, and once Mack realized we’ve all just been calling you two FitzSimmons since you first walked into this place, we figured we might as well go with _London Fog with FitzSimmons_.”

 

“Won’t that confuse people?” Fitz asks. “Kinda makes it sound like we’re one person.”   


Daisy snorts. “As far as this entire city is concerned, you might as well be. Just wanted to give you a heads up.”

 

“Thanks,” Jemma smiles, stomping on Fitz’s foot when he begins to protest. He yelps and Daisy winks at her before she barks out an order at some passing production assistant.

 

They walk down to Phil’s, the café on the first floor of the Channel 12 building, and immediately spot their in-field counterparts, Bobbi and Hunter. Fitz starts to wave at them and then notices their furrowed brows and close proximity. He quickly lowers his hand and grabs Jemma’s to lower hers as well.

 

“We don’t want to get involved in that,” he warns her, nodding toward their friends. “Bets on what they’re fighting about?”

 

“Last I heard from Bobbi, she’d caught him texting some other woman,” Jemma confides. In university, they’d both always enjoyed knowing the what’s-what of all of their classmates. Jemma had always assured him that as long as their gossip stayed between the two of them, it wasn’t so much _gossip_ as it was _investigative reconnaissance._

 

Fitz’s eyes widen. “Really? But he seems to fancy Bobbi so much.”

 

“I think he does,” Jemma sighs, watching the two fight. “I’m just not so sure that he knows what to do with it.”

 

“Yeah, well,” Fitz continues. “Can’t be easy, working with the person you have those kinds of feelings for, yeah? He’s got to follow her around with the camera all over the place, whether they’re fighting or not.”

 

Jemma’s smile falters slightly and he tilts his head as he examines her.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“Wrong?” she asks, voice a bit squeaky. “Oh, nothing’s wrong, Fitz.”

 

Her pink cheeks seem to say otherwise, but she’s approached the front of the queue before he can keep questioning her about it. She steps up to order her usual from the owner of the place, a middle-aged American named Phil Coulson who is particularly fond of Daisy. As a result, the London Fog team is his favorite.

 

“Morning, Jemma. What can I get you?” Phil greets.

 

Jemma smiles good-naturedly. “You know, I might try something different today. How about an English Breakfast rather than an Earl Grey? And the usual spinach and cheese breakfast sandwich.”

 

Phil whistles teasingly. “It’s like I don’t even know you anymore.”

 

Once Fitz has ordered his own tea and sandwich (sausage rather than spinach—he’d rather die than eat that disgusting thing), they take their usual spot in the corner, one of the few booths in the small shop. Jemma hums contentedly into her tea.

 

“Fitz, why did we choose jobs that force us to be up so bloody early?”

 

Fitz grins at her. “We didn’t exactly _choose_ to work morning shows. It’s more just…something that happened to us.”

 

Jemma bites her lip with a little smile of her own. “More like morning shows were the only thing that would take us.”

 

“You could have worked for the nightly,” Fitz reminds her. The bitterness that used to seep into his tone is absent. “Then you went on your we’re-a-package-deal rampage and mucked it up for yourself.”

 

“I wasn’t going to leave you in Dublin on your own. Don’t be ridiculous, we just needed a new plan,” Jemma huffs. “And then we wound up here!”

 

“Which is better than most,” he shrugs. “We finally get a break though. I love when the weekend show takes over.”

 

“Ah, yes. I want to take a nice hot shower and sleep. Maybe at the same time.”

 

“I know you’re kidding, but please don’t do that,” Fitz says. “Just—sometimes I feel like I have to tell you these things.”

 

Jemma scoffs. “As if I don’t have to constantly remind you not to bite into hot foods—“

 

“I _know_ that they’re hot, sometimes it’s just worth the blisters if you’re that hungry—“

 

“—honestly, like a small child.”

 

He takes a large bite of his steaming breakfast sandwich, grinning cheekily around his full mouth. “Ouch.”

 

She reaches across the table to bat at him. “You’re insufferable.”

 

He gulps down his massive bite of breakfast and nudges her foot with his own under the table. “And yet you’ve suffered me for nearly a decade.”

 

“I prefer to think of it as a horrible accident,” Jemma sasses, eyebrows raised.

 

He gives her that look that she loves so much, a combination of softness and amusement, like she’s the most interesting and amusing thing he’s ever known. She likes to think that maybe she is.

 

She _knows_ that she thinks of him that way. So later that night, after they’ve both taken lengthy naps and met up with some of the crew for drinks at the pub, she resists the urge to grab his hand while they chat with Daisy and Lincoln. She also resists the urge to imitate their producer and their lighting guy when Lincoln and Fitz go to grab another round. Daisy freely places a quick kiss to Lincoln’s mouth in thanks and it takes everything in her not to do the same to her unsuspecting best friend.

 

She’s so caught up in her thoughts that she misses the way that he unconsciously leans into her before he turns around to head toward the bar.

 

***

 

“Now we’ll turn to our in-field reporter Bobbi Morse for the latest on the Tube closures. Bobbi?”

 

Bobbi takes over from there and with the camera off of her, Jemma can adjust her top. Daisy had been desperately gesturing at it for nearly two whole minutes. Evidently, she’d popped not one button, but two. All efforts to casually fix it on camera had been for naught.

 

“Help,” Jemma hisses to Fitz. Her nerves always get the best of her during the show, even though she’s been at this for years. Fitz, on the other hand, maintains a level of steadiness that she’s always dreamed of achieving.

 

She swivels her chair toward him, gesturing at her over-exposed torso. Fitz’s eyes blow wide open and he gulps, just…staring at her.

 

“Fitz!” Jemma whispers desperately. “Bobbi is almost done.”

 

Snapping out of it, he quickly helps her do up the buttons. He pushes himself further under the news desk than she’s ever seen him go. The press of the desk against his stomach looks almost painful, and before she can ask him about it, it’s their turn.

 

“Thanks Bobbi,” Fitz says, voice an octave higher than normal. Jemma schools her face into a neutral expression, resisting the urge to turn toward him curiously. His behavior is utterly strange. “Our next story comes out of South Bank—“

 

They make it through the rest of the show with little incident, and Jemma is eternally grateful that the top Kara put her in for the broadcast decides to behave for the remainder of their onscreen time.

 

“That’s life,” Jemma smiles.

  
“Think on,” Fitz finishes. He shuffles the papers on the desk and she does the same, turning toward him as if in a serious conversation. Daisy calls for ‘cut’ and they put everything down, removing their mics. As soon as she shifts away from the desk, the whole thing bursts open again.

 

“Oh!” Jemma exclaims in surprise.

 

Daisy wolf-whistles childishly and covers Lincoln’s eyes with her hand. “No peeking unless you wanna sleep on the couch tonight.”

 

Her hands are much steadier now that the camera is off of them, but Fitz moves forward on instinct and quickly helps her fix her top. His eyes focus intently on the task at hand and when he’s done, he’s beet red and averting his gaze from her.

 

Daisy snorts and claps him on the back as she passes. “You two couldn’t be any more married if you were _actually_ married.”

 

Jemma flushes at the insinuation and hurries past Fitz on her way to her dressing room to change out of her ridiculously defective blouse. She’d thought that they’d surpassed such awkwardness after their university days but evidently, embarrassing crushes on your best friend and his obvious aversion to your form never quite stop being mortifying, and the people around you will always mistake his aversion for some kind of bashful adoration.

 

At least, that’s what she’s experienced. She swallows down the hurt and embarrassment, glad to slip into a well-worn cotton shirt and a cardigan. She takes a few moments to collect herself, removing a bit of the excessive eye-makeup that she wears for broadcasts before she slings her bag over her shoulder and opens the door.

 

Fitz stands on the other side, leaning against the opposite wall with his hands in his pockets.

 

“Ready?” he asks.

 

She grins at him, relieved to see that whatever their little moments might bring, he’ll always be consistent.

 

“Do you even have to ask?” she responds. They make their way toward the elevator, falling into their usual chatter about today’s show. It must just be in her mind, but she swears that she sees his eyes flicker toward her chest more than once while they sip their tea.

 

Her flat is on the way to his, and he walks her there every morning before her afternoon nap. They both sleep after their breakfast and wake up around dinnertime. The life of a morning show host often feels similar to that of an elderly couple, and Jemma often teases Fitz that he must revel in it, given his thick knits and grouchy demeanor.

 

Feeling particularly heartened, she grabs his arm as he turns to leave her at the entrance of her building. “Why don’t you come up? We could watch a film and kip on the couch for a bit, hm?”

 

He blinks rapidly at her before his face splits into a wide grin. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be…that’d be good.”

 

Jemma beams, tightening her hold on his hand and leading the way inside. “We hardly get to spend any time together now, apart from the show.”

 

“Yeah, I’ve missed it,” Fitz admits to the back of her head as she fusses with her key in the lock. As soon as he says it, he winces.

 

 _Might as well tell her you picture what your children look like,_ he thinks in a bitter panic.

 

Jemma doesn’t seem to notice, though, and pushes through her front door with a pleasant smile. “What do you want to watch?”

 

He hums in thought, hanging his coat in her hallway and kicking off his shoes with comfortable ease. It’s been a few weeks since he’s been over, but he still knows her apartment nearly as well as his own.

 

“I’m dead tired so maybe something we’ve seen a lot,” Fitz suggests.

 

Jemma grins, skipping over to her collection of DVDs and pulling out the first Indiana Jones movie. “Shall we raid the Lost Ark?”

 

He chuckles at her bad joke, shaking his head and falling onto the couch with a contended sigh. Unlike him, Jemma had invested in a very comfortable couch. His Ikea futon has nothing on this thing, and he curls into the corner of it happily.

 

“Sure, let’s spend the afternoon with Dr. Jones.”

 

She sets up the film and steels herself as she sits beside him. There’s a large amount of free space left over after Fitz has curled up like a little cat, but she’s trying her hardest to be brave so she seats herself directly next to them, his knees pressing against her thigh.

 

It’s not even particularly comfortable for her, but she’s so proud of her confidence that she doesn’t even care. Regardless of her courage, she can’t quite manage to look over at him.

 

About ten minutes in to the movie, he shifts his position so that his thighs, rather than his knees, make contact with her body. She chances a glance in his direction and see him staring intently at the screen, teeth clamped down on his lower lip.

 

Her brain attributes this response to the adventures of Indiana Jones, but her heart leaps at the traitorous thought that maybe he likes being near her as much as she likes to be near him.

 

Halfway through the movie she begins to doze off, leaning more heavily into his side. Her exhaustion prevents her from any real embarrassment and her head droops unceremoniously onto his shoulder as her eyes shut. She completely misses the way he looks down at her, half-smile on his face and hope in his eyes.

 

***

 

Several weeks after their movie night (really afternoon, but according to Fitz, they can’t call them that), the show hits a record high in the ratings. They’ve finally broken into the top three morning shows, and Jemma is flying high on the adrenaline of it.

 

Daisy takes the entire crew out for drinks at the pub, even inviting Phil and their terrifying network executive, Melinda May. Surprisingly, Melinda seems to hit it off with Phil immediately, and Jemma is temporarily captivated by the two of them sitting in a quiet booth, talking earnestly to each other. She’s pretty sure she catches May…smiling?

 

Fitz appears beside her and her attention shifts entirely toward him. He hands her a drink with a pleased smirk.

 

“Apparently Daisy is picking up the _entire_ tab, so drink up,” he laughs. She clinks her beer against his and they each take a long sip, leaning against the bar in nearly matching poses. Lincoln sips on his soda, grinning down at his girlfriend/boss as she regales their latest addition, who Jemma is pretty sure is named Joey, with the story of the Great Set Blackout of 2013. Ever since she’s known him, Lincoln has gazed at Daisy with such respect and adoration. It makes her more than a little envious.

 

Her own constant pursuit of professional success hadn’t allowed for many romantic entanglements. The few that she’d tried on had just never seemed to fit, especially since they all got so overwhelmingly jealous of her friendship with Fitz. In fact, her last boyfriend had been the one to really show her that perhaps her feelings for her partner were more than platonic.

 

_“Look, Jemma, you wanna be here with someone…but that someone isn’t me,” Jason said, standing from the table and leaving her alone in the restaurant on Valentine’s Day._

_She stared after him, jaw dropped. Just because she’d been texting Fitz? It’s not her fault that Fitz’s play-by-play commentary of Jaws was more interesting than Jason the Dud’s conversation._

_Settling up her bill, she stood and straightened out her nice dress, finding her way to Fitz’s flat with ease._

 

_He swung open the door and tilted his head in confusion._

_“Thought you were going out with what’s-his-face?”_

_Jemma scoffed, shaking her head and pulling the pins out of her hair. “I suppose I realized I’d rather be elsewhere.”_

_“Well, welcome to the blood and gore of the Leo Fitz Annual Valentine’s Day Film Fest.”_

_“That seems like a bit of a mouthful,” she teased._

_“Yes, we call it LFAVDFF for short,” he grinned. “I’ll make some more popcorn.”_

_She watched him busy himself in the kitchen and reflected on Jason’s words. Yes, she’d like to still be at that fancy restaurant with the romantic ambience…but for the first time it hits her._

_She’d rather be there with Fitz._

His fingers snap in front of her face, bringing her back to reality. “You okay, Jemma?”

 

She jumps, turning toward him. “Yes, just fine. So we really did it, huh?”

 

“We’re officially the number three morning show in London,” Fitz says wryly. “Does this mean we’ve made it? Do we retire now?”

 

Jemma nudges him with her shoulder. “I think we do. Where should we settle?”

 

“I suppose I’ll have to accept a life in England,” he winks.

 

Jemma crinkles her nose. “Y’know, I was on holiday with my parents once and we drove past this lovely cottage in Perthshire. I think about it a lot, still. We could settle down there.”

 

Fitz’s smile is larger than she’s ever seen it. “Didn’t know you thought about settling down in Perthshire. That’s in Scotland.”

 

“I know where it is, Fitz,” she sighs fondly, rolling her eyes. He stares at her so intently, smile slowly falling from his face, and she takes the tiniest little step closer to him.

 

“FitzSimmons!” Hunter calls across the bar. “We need two more for darts!”

 

She leaps away from him, knocking into the barstool behind her as he does the same. Bobbi shoots Jemma a half-amused and half-apologetic look when they reach their in-field reporting counterparts.

 

Regardless of the missed moment, they have quite a lot of fun. Three beers in, Fitz begins to get a little more affectionate than usual. His hand finds its way onto the small of her back as they chat with Joey and Mack, thumb drawing little circles onto her skin. In the middle of a sentence, he cuts off, toying with the bottom of her Jemma’s hair.

 

“I like when you do it like this,” he says. Mack and Joey raise their eyebrows at each other.

 

“Oh really?” she asks shyly. “I just…last time all you said was that it looked ‘different.”

 

Fitz makes a little strangled noise in his throat. “Well, I’m just not the best at…at complimenting. You. People. In general.”

 

Jemma impulsively places a kiss to his cheek. “I’m going to grab one more. Want one?”

 

He nods wordlessly, mouth hanging open ever so slightly. She pulls the empty bottle dangling from his fingertips and skips toward the bar. As she leaves, she hears Mack smack Fitz on the back.

 

“Smooth, Turbo,” the older man laughs. She runs into Daisy at the bar.

 

“Jemma!” the producer cheers. “Hey, listen, when the BBC comes after you next week, I’m gonna need you to say _no_ to that.”

 

Jemma laughs, accepting Daisy’s enthusiastic hug. Lincoln pries his girlfriend off of her. “That’s sweet, Daisy, but I don’t think there’s any risk of the BBC trying to take me off of your hands anytime soon.”

 

Daisy stomps her foot like an indignant toddler. “But they _are!_ May told me. They’re going to offer you a _job_ on the _nightly!”_

The entire thing is said in a horrifically inaccurate British accent, but Jemma doesn’t even have the ability to make fun of her for it. Her brain swirls with Daisy’s bombshell. Daisy, on the other hand, has completely moved on.

 

Jemma sits heavily in a barstool, staring at the counter in shock. Ever since she was a little girl, she’d wanted to be on the nightly news. Her parents both worked a lot, and the only time she got to spend with them was when they’d sit in a line on the couch, Jemma squeezed between them, and watch the news after dinner. Then they would put her to bed.

 

And this was her chance, to be on the nightly news of a major international network. It was more than she ever could have dreamed, and she would be buying the entire pub a round of drinks just at the _possibility_ of being offered a job like this.

 

Her eyes fall on Fitz, chatting with Mack and Joey, and her heart falls to the floor. Her dream had always been to work for the nightly news, but that had been before she met Fitz. The first person that paid her attention without her having to work for it. The first person that cared for her unconditionally, who expected nothing from her and appreciated each and every thing she did for him.

 

They’d been paired up in their first broadcast journalism class that first year and there’d been no separating them since. At first she’d though he hated her, but after only a week she’d managed to break through his prickly demeanor and recognized it for what it was: pure shyness.

 

He glances over at her, cocking an eyebrow in a silent question. She smiles and nods, letting him know that she’s fine. He gives her a thumbs up and a wink that sets her heart racing, so she orders two more beers and resumes her place next to him, jumping right in to the story he’s telling about their horrible first attempted at “investigative journalism” fresh out of university.

 

They walk home with his arm around her shoulders and hers around his waist. When she tumbles into bed after chugging several glasses of water, she stares at the picture of him set as the background of her phone and makes a decision.

 

She’s not going to leave him. Maybe her dream had been working for the BBC when she was young, but now? Her dream is to work for as long as she can with her favorite person on Earth, doing what they both love. She never could have dreamed that they would find each other that she would find her perfect match in every single way.

 

So she’ll stay. She loves her show, she loves her team, and most importantly, she loves Fitz.

 

***

 

After that night, she’d pushed the BBC out of her mind. Rather than fixating on the job she hadn’t technically been offered, she’d thrown herself more enthusiastically into spending time outside of work with Fitz once again.

 

“Why did we stop doing this?” he asks her, mouth full of Pad Thai. “It’s like we just stopped hanging out like this over night.”

 

Jemma furrows her brow, pretending to think. Of course, she knows the answer. Because it had hurt. She’d realized her feelings for him, accepted that he’d never feel the same way when he awkwardly flirted with the girl in the flower dress who did the weather, and tried to move on. The best way to do that, at least it had seemed, was to distance herself from him as much as she could bear.

 

Which, it turns out, isn’t very far, since she can’t take her dream job for fear of losing him forever.

 

“I’m not sure,” she finally answers. “I suppose we both just got busy.”

 

He snorts. “We work early mornings, we go to bed, we go out with the crew sometimes—we’re really not busy.”

 

“I suppose it happens,” she shrugs awkwardly. “Growing older and all of that.”

 

This seems to trouble him, somehow. He freezes with his chopsticks near his mouth, noodles falling limply back onto his plate.

 

“Fitz?”

 

“Hm? Oh, nothing. Sorry. Thought you uh—thought you had something on your face.”

 

Her face immediately heats and she feels around her mouth. “Oh.”

 

It takes a while for them to get back into their usual rhythm, but once they do, they don’t lose it again. They enjoy most of their meals together, spending as much time at each other’s flats as they do at their own. Jemma decides, somewhere on the sixth day of this renewed connection, that she’ll be happy if this is her life forever. And she ignores the nagging voice in the back of her head that sounds uncannily like her mother.

 

_This is all fun and games until he falls in love with someone else. Then he’s married with children and where are you? You’re sad Auntie Jemma now, watching his kids on date night with his stunning, tall blonde wife._

She shuts her eyes against it, closes her mind off to that kind of musing, and does her best not to imagine Fitz winding up with a woman who looks like Bobbi. Jemma knows, of course, that it would be ridiculous—Fitz has always favored brunettes and has a very distinct insecurity regarding his height, even though she’s repeatedly assured him that he’s really quite average and not _that_ small, considering.

 

Jemma leans into it, the way that he laughs at all of her bad jokes and gossips with her about their co-workers before their ridiculously early morning meetings. He meets her in the lobby of the building with tea every day and, at one point, clumsily compliments her outfit. She makes him a playlist of a new band she thinks he’ll like, and in turn he types out a list of movies she _needs_ to watch on a note in her phone.

 

Jemma Simmons isn’t completely inept at romance, and Leo Fitz has been her best friend for years, so she’s certainly not inept at reading him. This is her moment. It’s her opening to try to change things between them, her opportunity to push their relationship into a more romantic direction if it’s ever going to reach one.

 

 

After that particular staff meeting, Daisy pulls her aside before broadcast and hands her a letter on the BBC letterhead. Daisy grimaces, obviously sad at the possibility of losing an anchor and a dear friend. Jemma skims it and sees that it’s really just an offer to send them her reel because they think she would be good for a position in their New York broadcast office.

 

She practically scoffs at the suggestion that she’d move all the way to America just for some job, especially one that she’s already talked herself out of for nearly a week. She folds it up and slips it into the waistband of her pencil skirt before she sits down at her spot next to Fitz, gearing up for the morning’s show.

 

“Good morning and welcome to another day with London Fog,” Fitz grins into the camera.

 

“While you were sleeping, here were last night’s top stories,” Jemma jumps in.

 

She spends the entire morning gearing herself up to ask him on some semblance of a date. Just inviting him over to watch these movies won’t be enough, and she runs every possible combination of words over and over in hear head during the broadcast. She can tell that she’s dropping words and Fitz is forced to pick up her slack. At one point, he’s so frustrated that he kicks her ankle underneath the desk.

 

It’s their agreed-upon code for _what the fuck are you doing_ and she does her best to get her head back in the game, but she’s too far gone. There’s nothing for it.

 

When it’s over, she’s so embarrassed and flustered and still hasn’t decided on what to say, so she races to her dressing room before Fitz can say a word to her about it. She wrestles herself out of her body mic and wills herself to calm down.

 

“Get it together, Jemma,” she hisses at herself. “Just ask him. Or don’t. But you can’t just _run away_ like you’re in bloody grade school.”

 

She busies herself with changing into her street clothes, hoping that the extra few minutes will give her some kind of new perspective or inspire her with an un-thought-of turn of phrase that will sweep him off of his feet.

 

“I’ll just ask him,” she mutters. “I’ll just say, ‘hi Fitz, I’d like if you came over and watched some of these movies but not as my friend, as a date’. Simple, straightforward. He’ll like that, he hates all those mind games and such.”

 

Sucking in a deep breath, she hops up and down on her toes a few times, amping herself up like an athlete before she swings open the door with the full intention of marching to his dressing room and blurting out that she wants to have a date with him.

 

As soon as she moves forward, she collides with his chest. He looks rather furious, or hurt, or some combination thereof that she doesn’t really understand. It doesn’t really bode well for her intended conversation topic and she shrinks back into her dressing room as he stalks into it, effectively backing her in as he shuts the door behind him.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Fitz practically growls, shoving the letter from the BBC toward her with uncharacteristic aggression.

 

She snatches it, glances at it to make sure that it’s the letter she thinks it is, and tosses it aside onto her vanity. “Because it doesn’t matter! I’m not going to send them anything. Besides, when would I have had the time?”

 

“Is that why the show was a complete and utter train wreck today?” he gapes. “Because of this letter?”

 

“No!” Jemma protests. “Daisy told me _days_ ago that they wanted to contact me, so…”

 

“Days,” Fitz repeats dumbly. “They told you days ago?”

 

“Well, Daisy had said, that night we were at the bar…”

 

“Oh my God,” he mumbles, hands shooting into his hair. “Jemma, this is—this is huge.”

 

She rolls her eyes. Fitz has always been the dramatic of the pair and it’s one of the qualities she finds perhaps the least endearing about him. Their similarities had made them fast friends, but their differences had made them equal partners. Where she was always looking for the cold hard facts and the biggest story, he’d been interested in more idealistic pursuits of truth and heroism. He loved the puff pieces, the bits about old ladies turning 100 and good Samaritans tackling strangers out of the path of an oncoming bus. Jemma had always preferred the meaty pieces, the exposés on big CEOs and corrupt institutions. It was what made their dynamic so good (even if she’d had very little opportunity to report on her preferred stories anchoring a morning show).

 

“This is what you’ve always wanted,” Fitz breathes, watching her face carefully. She feels like she’s being studied, and whatever he must see in her eyes makes him stumble back a step. “Why won’t you take it?”

 

“I like where I am,” she huffs. He snorts gracelessly and throws his hands up.

 

“We’re on _another_ crappy morning show,” he groans. “We’ve been doing this for _ages_.”

 

“And I enjoy it!”

 

“You don’t,” he argues, beginning to pace back and forth like he’s trapped in some kind of cage. She leans against her chair and watches him wearily. “You never wanted this. You wanted the nightlys. The big stories, the hard-hitting stuff. I never did. I’m perfectly happy up there, at my non-mobile little desk, telling the same stories over and over again.”

 

“Fitz, you’re not listening to me,” she sighs. “I’m perfectly happy here as well!”

 

“Why won’t you just admit that this isn’t what you want?” he asks, voice rising slightly at the end of his question. His brogue thickens in his anger and it does something pleasantly painful to her gut.

 

“Because it _is!”_ she exclaims, standing straight to face off with him. “I used to want all of those things but that was before, that was before all of this, and—“

 

“Before me,” Fitz interrupts. “Before you met me.”

 

She pauses long enough for him to know. He sees it in her eyes that he’s hit the truth and she wants to shift back in time, respond faster, convince him, somehow, that he’s completely and totally wrong. She doesn’t have that power, though, so she stands rather helplessly in front of him, watching as he loosens his tie desperately.

 

“I gotta go,” he finally says.

 

“Fitz, wait,” Jemma pleads. “You’re not _listening_ to me!”

 

The door slams behind him. Her legs are trembling entirely too much for her to follow after.

 

***

 

She doesn’t have to wait very long for him to resolve their argument one way or another. Given that they work together, side by side, she figured that it would occur before their meeting. They’d stand in the hallway, sip tea and whisper quietly. In the ten minutes between their arrival and Daisy’s briefing, they would be right as rain.

 

Which is why it doesn’t sit well with her when he shows up at her door, wet from the rain, at half past nine in the evening. They both sleep early, given that their call time is at 4 a.m., and she’s in her pajamas when he begins pounding on the door to her flat.

 

As soon as she opens it, he sweeps past her into her living room and she would normally roll her eyes, if the situation weren’t so serious.

 

“You have to send in your reel,” he finally says after a long moment of staring at her, chest heaving with his fast breath. She blinks rapidly.

 

“I don’t _have_ to do anything, Fitz!”

 

“You do,” he argues. “This is everything you ever wanted—“

 

“Maybe it’s not what I want anymore!” she cuts him off, crossing her arms over her chest. “If you’re so set on me applying, then—then we need a new plan. If they really like me I can negotiate, try to bring you with me—“

 

“We both know that’s not an option. Jemma, this is an amazing opportunity,” he says sadly. “We’ll still—we’ll still be friends, but you can’t throw this away for me. I’m not worth it.”

 

“What are you on about?” Jemma hisses. “Of _course_ you are. You’re my best friend in the world!”

 

“Yeah, and you’re more than that, Jemma,” Fitz chokes out. She freezes as the weight of his words settle over them both.

 

“What?” she gasps. He could mean anything—that she’s more than just his best friend, she’s a talented journalist, or that he sees her as more than just his best friend. Before she gets a chance to figure out which he’s talking about, he continues.

 

“I couldn’t find the courage to tell you,” he gasps. “So please, let me show you. I sent them your reel and your resumé.”

 

“I told you I didn’t want to apply,” she says angrily. “Why won’t you just accept my decision?”

 

“I couldn’t live with myself if you didn’t at least try for this,” he admits quietly.

 

Jemma runs her hands over her face in frustration. “There’s no guarantee that they’ll even hire me.”

 

“Of course they will,” he says with a wry little smile. “You’re amazing, Jemma. And you deserve this job.”

 

He’s looking at her like a goodbye and she throws herself at him, knocking him backward a couple of steps.

 

“I don’t want to leave you,” she sobs out into his neck.

 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Fitz murmurs bravely. “It’s alright.”

 

She pulls away and presses little kisses all over his face. She feels his breath hitch underneath her and he pulls back.

 

“Even if I get it, I’m not taking the job,” she says fiercely.

 

“Yes you are,” he shoots back. “If you stay at London Fog for me, I’ll leave the show.”

 

She gulps, feeling as though there’s not enough oxygen in the room.

 

“Fitz, I have to tell you something,” she blurts out. “You said—you said I’m more than that and I don’t know what that means, but—“

 

“There’s nothing to discuss, Jemma,” he says sadly. “I’ll see you at work, okay? I just didn’t want to—didn’t wanna talk about this at the office.”

 

“Fitz, please—“

 

He gives her that sad smile again before he turns and leaves. Just like a few hours before, she doesn’t have the strength or the courage to follow him and demand answers.

 

***

 

Fitz seems to avoid any possibility of them ever being alone. He manages to rope another person into every conversation, avoids coming out of his dressing room until the briefing is just about to begin, and practically bolts for Mack as soon as the broadcast is over. It stings and hurts and she doesn’t understand what the hell happened between them.

 

After five days of Fitz avoiding her, she receives a call from the BBC.

 

“We’d like you to come out to our New York office for a three-month trial basis. We want to start you by the end of the week,” the American on the other side of the line informs her.

 

“Oh,” Jemma says, shocked. This is the moment she always dreamed of, but somehow, it falls flat. She’d always imagined having someone to share it with, but instead she sits alone on her couch, watching raindrops chase each other on her window. “Can I think about it? I’ll need to speak with my current producer.”

 

“Of course,” the man says. “Just give us a call back by the end of the day tomorrow.”

 

“Thank you so much for your offer,” she says as genuinely as possible.

 

As soon as she hangs up, she calls her Daisy and heads over to her place. She doesn’t live very far away, and the damp stroll down the streets of London helps her clear her head, at least a little bit. When she arrives, Daisy already has a bottle of wine open and a sympathetic expression on her face.

 

“I kicked Lincoln out,” Daisy informs her. “Figured you could use some girl time.”

 

Jemma sighs, accepting a glass and making herself comfortable on one of Daisy’s armchairs. “The BBC offered me a job,” she rushes. Daisy blinks, biting her lip.

 

“And you said?”

 

“I said I needed to think about it and talk to my producer,” Jemma explains, gesturing vaguely at Daisy. “They want me to start by the end of this week.”

 

Daisy inhales deeply and sighs. “Look, Jemma, it’ll be hard, but we’ll make do without you. I already put my feelers out for some new reporters. I’ll move Bobbi from the field to the desk and I’m sure I can find a new field reporter fresh out of college no problem.”

 

“I just—I don’t know what I want to do,” Jemma mumbles pitifully. “This was supposed to be the dream. Travelling the world, reporting big stories…all I ever wanted was a journey into mystery but I’ve worked beside Fitz for nearly twelve years now.”

 

Daisy nods sympathetically. “You two are like, psychically linked.”

 

“Apparently not,” Jemma snorts. “He and I seem to have come to some misunderstanding that I can’t figure out. He’s the one who even sent in my reel. I didn’t want to apply to this.”

 

Daisy tilts her head in confusion. “So if you don’t want the job, why are you thinking about taking it?”

 

“He said if I don’t take it, he’ll quit,” Jemma tells her miserably.

 

“I don’t understand,” Daisy says slowly, confused. “Why is he _forcing_ you to do this?”

 

“Because he’s so bloody stubborn!” Jemma exclaims in frustration. “He won’t listen to what I’m saying. He’s so hung up on the dreams I told him about when we were nineteen, he can’t see how they might have changed. He won’t accept that I’m different than I was.”

 

“That’s super not cool of him to do. Of course you’re different than you were,” Daisy scoffs. “You grew up.”

 

“Exactly,” Jemma agrees. “And he seems to think that growing up meant accepting something less than what I deserve, but I just realized that success can mean so many different things. I’m happy at the show. I do what I love with the people I love. How many people can say that?”

 

Daisy grins. “Well, I know I can. It would suck to see you go, Jemma.”

 

“I don’t want to,” Jemma sighs. “But if I stay and Fitz leaves the show—“

 

“Do you love him?” Daisy asks suddenly. Jemma is immediately taken aback.

 

“What?”

 

“Do you love him?” she repeats.

 

“Of course I do,” Jemma replies instinctively. “He’s my best friend.”

 

“I mean are you _in love with him.”_

Jemma looks up at the ceiling, avoiding her astute friend’s gaze. “Yes. I have been for—for some time now, and I tried to tell him that the other night, but then everything went to hell. It felt like we were finally getting somewhere.”

 

A sad smile tugs at Daisy’s mouth. “Then I think you need to go.”

 

Jemma’s eyes snap to her friend and she blinks back the burning tears building in them. “What?”

 

“I think you need to take this job,” Daisy tells her seriously. She takes a long sip of her wine and continues. “Either it’ll give you a chance to get over him or he’ll figure his shit out. It’s only three months right? Then you can either come back or stay. But it’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

 

Jemma gulps down the lump in her throat, nodding slowly. “I suppose—I guess you’re right.”

 

Daisy moves to squeeze in beside her on the armchair, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Jemma’s head falls to Daisy’s shoulder and she lets out a little sob.

 

“You know, most people would be really excited right now,” Daisy teases.

 

Jemma sniffs loudly. “Most people don’t have something so precious to lose.”

 

***

 

“So you’re going,” Fitz says from the doorway of her dressing room. She glances up at him and then quickly looks away, unable to meet his blue eyes. She focuses on taking down the last of the photographs from around her mirror.

 

“Yes,” she replies crisply. “Not as if I’ve been given a _choice.”_

He flinches. “Look, I know you’re mad at me—“

 

“I’m not mad,” she clarifies. “I’m confused.”

 

“You’ll understand once you get to New York and fall in love with your new job,” he tells her confidently. She fights back the urge to throw the framed photograph of them on their first day at their very first show. They’re so young and bright-eyed and she has no idea how they wound up here.

 

“Whatever, Fitz.”

 

“Jemma, I’m only trying to help…”

 

She scoffs gracelessly. “Trying to help with what, exactly, Fitz? What you perceive as my career aspirations? Trying to help dictate the outcomes of my life with very little regard for what I actually want?”

 

He tenses and even though she’s not looking at him, she feels his mood shift. “I can’t do this right now.”

 

She finally raises her eyes from the task in front of her. “I leave tomorrow morning, so I guess this is it, then.”

 

He pinches at the bridge of his nose, eyes clenching shut. “It’s not _it._ This isn’t _it.”_

Jemma steps closer to him, hoisting the last box into her arms and willing him to look at her. When he finally does, she lets one of her tears escape down her cheek.

 

“Then how come it is?”

 

She brushes past him, walking out of the Channel 12 building for the very last time, tears streaming down her face.

 

***

 

Jemma finishes packing up the essentials for three months in New York City. She hopes that her business clothes will be enough, with a few pairs of pajamas and some casual outfits as well. She imagines she won’t have much reason to wear them, living out of a hotel room in a different country without any of the people that she knows.

 

Daisy had offered to come over and help her, but she’d preferred to leave all of her goodbyes in the Channel 12 building. Hunter had been fairly unimpressed with her decision and muttered something about Fitz being a ‘bloody idiot’ under his breath when Jemma had turned to hug his blonder and prettier other half. Daisy had cried fairly violently until Lincoln pulled her aside to soothe her, and Mack had fist-bumped her with a sad little smile.

 

Then she’d gone to her dressing room, had her confrontation with Fitz, and left in relative peace and quiet. She had lingered at Phil’s for nearly an hour, sipping cold tea and praying to a God she wasn’t sure she believed in that Fitz would walk out of the elevator and beg her to stay. He hadn’t, and so she headed back to her flat and finished the last of her business there.

 

Taking one last look around her apartment, she hauls her giant suitcase toward the front door. She remembers how excited she’d been to get this apartment in the first place, and how Fitz had come over to help her hang shelves and pictures. They’d bickered over whether or not everything was straight or crooked and had eaten entirely too much pizza on the living room floor.

 

She swings the door shut behind her and tries to make peace with the finality of it all.

 

The cab driver helps her haul her luggage into the boot of the car and she settles in for the long drive through traffic. She absently scrolls through her photos, lingering on one that she’d taken of Fitz during a briefing meeting. Her thumb unconsciously circles around his face before she skips to the next one.

 

Within seconds, she’s back to the picture of Fitz. He leans back in his chair, a little smirk on his face and the morning packet in his hands. It’s one of her very favorite photos of him.

 

She looks out the window just as they inch along past the Channel 12 building. She looks at the time—4 a.m. The broadcast will just be beginning.

 

Her eyes dart between the photo on her screen and the building beside her. The light ahead turns green and she panics.

 

“WAIT!” Jemma shouts. “I need to get out.”

 

“What?” the cab driver asks dumbly. “You said Heathrow.”

 

“I know what I said but I need to get out now,” Jemma rushes. She tosses entirely too much money at him, ignoring the blaring horns of the cars behind them. She struggles with the door of the car until he unlocks it and her suitcase nearly mows her over when she yanks it out of the trunk.

 

Then she takes off running, shoving through the doors gracelessly and limping when the giant roller bag smacks against the back of her ankles. The security guard, a quirky little man named Sam (or was he Billy?) Koenig, raises his eyebrows at her but waves her on through.

 

“Woah, Jemma!” Phil calls out. “I thought you were off to New York!”

 

“I was,” Jemma pants, moving as quickly as she possibly can. “But now I’m not. I need to get up to the soundstage.”

 

She bangs incessantly on the elevator button. Jemma pushes into it as soon as it opens and desperately presses the number 12 over and over again. It feels like it takes forever to reach the Channel 12 floor.

 

She abandons her large suitcase in the hallway as soon as she scrambles out of the lift. She doesn’t let herself second guess her evolving plan—instead, she sprints headlong into the studio just as Fitz and Bobbi begin their opening lines.

 

Bobbi’s eyes meet hers, widening in surprise as a pleased grin spreads across her face. Fitz, focused on the teleprompter, doesn’t seem to notice her until she’s on camera.

 

“I’m not going,” she announces. He stops mid-sentence, some story about a bus accident the night before.

 

“Jemma, what are you doing?” he hisses, gesturing at the live broadcast occurring around them.

 

“What I should have done forever ago,” she declares, voice shaking slightly. Bobbi pushes back and slinks off of the little platform that houses the news desk. “You can’t force me to take that job at the BBC, Fitz. I love it here, and you’re not holding me back. You’re the reason I _like my job._ I’ve been head over heels in love with you for years.”

 

His cheeks flush instantly. She expects Daisy to cut to commercial, but instead the producer sits in her canvas chair looking like the cat that ate the canary.

 

“If you don’t feel the same way that’s fine,” Jemma continues. “But I love you, as my partner and my best friend and more than that. So I’m not going anywhere.”

 

Fitz stands slowly from the desk. “Do you mean it?”

 

“Of course I do,” she sighs in exasperation, throwing her trembling hands up. “You ridiculous, stubborn, frustrating man.”

 

His gaze focuses intently on her eyes and then on her lips. Her breath hitches in her chest as he takes two more steps toward her.

  
“I told you, you’re more than that,” he murmurs just before he surges forward and grasps her cheeks in his palms. His lips land on hers a bit clumsily at first, but as soon as she presses back against him, they find an easy rhythm. She feels the inexplicable urge to cry from the relief of it all and she vaguely remembers, somewhere in the back of her mind, that they’re on live television.

 

She pulls back and stares at him, starry-eyed, only to find him blinking at her rather owlishly.

 

“What?” she giggles.

 

He shakes his head. “I just—I never thought—I thought I’d really stuffed it up this time.”

 

Jemma grins, pressing her lips to his one more time before settling into the chair vacated by Bobbi.

 

“I believe we have some news to deliver, Fitz.”

 

“Right,” Fitz croaks. He clears his throat and sits back down at his seat beside her. “So—anyway—about the uh, the bus accident.”

 

“It occurred last night at approximately 11:20 p.m.,” Jemma jumps in easily, reading off of the teleprompter.

 

Underneath the desk, his fingers link with hers and she gives his hand a little squeeze. They have a lot to talk about, but they can deal with the rest later.

 

For now, they’ll do what they do best—deliver the news, side by side.


End file.
